


The Summoning

by SerenLyall



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Campaign 2 (Critical Role), Gen, implied/reference prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-14 19:41:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18058796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SerenLyall/pseuds/SerenLyall
Summary: He is nameless, friendless, cold and starving: nameless for his own protection; cold from winter's bite, exhaustion, and starvation; starving because he has been spending what money he's managed to make in the hopes - the dire, desperate hopes - that he may no longer be alone.





	The Summoning

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever Critical Role fic...so please be kind. I'm still figuring out voices and tone (though there's very little talking in this fic, and our only characters are Caleb and Frumpkin), so if you have any suggestions, I'm more than open to hearing them. I'd really love to hear your thoughts, so I can know what was good and what I need to improve on! I can't wait to hear from you! And now, without further ado, my first CR fic...

THE SUMMONING

It begins with a whisper and a plea.

You are hungry—so very, very hungry. You have not eaten in a week, and your hands tremble from exhaustion and starvation. Water, cold—too cold: cold enough to numb your tongue and burn your teeth—fills your belly in a facsimile of fullness; it sits heavy in your stomach, sloshing and thick, like lead and iron and blood.

The necessary runes are drawn in the dirt. It clings to the skin of your fingers and digs beneath your nails, embedded there from when you etched the runes into the hard, frozen earth. The brass brazier, which you sold yourself for three nights to buy, sits at the center of the arcane symbols, a fire burning within it.

The flames are gold and red and hot. You long to crawl close, to bury your hands in the flames and let yourself burn, burn, burn—because surely burning is better than this slow freezing that you have been suffering day in and day out, as the warmth of your body slowly leeches away, sucked dry by hunger and exhaustion. You have dreamed of burning every night since your freedom—since _their_ deaths—and so surely, surely, surely burning would be better, would be known, would be penance.

You do not crawl into the fire. Instead you throw the necessary herbs—which had taken another night’s pleasure to buy—into the flames. They rise into the air as sweet-smelling smoke, the leaves and stems curling into black fingers that crumble to ash mere seconds later.

The incense burns next, and its scent is rich and heady. It makes you want to vomit, the water in your stomach turning to acid. You swallow, and swallow, and swallow bile down, down, down, until your stomach settles and you can breathe more than panting gasps once again.

Then the words. They trip and fall from your tongue, unaccustomed to anything but the paltriest of sentences and the false screams of pleasure. They shudder in the air, real and tangible things that, if you just reach out, you could touch, grasp, devour. The magic of them thrums through your veins, through your blood—and for an instant all is good, all is well, all is whole and wholesome once more. You have forgotten the thrill of the power of magic in your blood, forgotten the invigorating rush of energy associated with casting a spell.

You realize, very suddenly, that you have forgotten what it means to be yourself.

That is, you think, a good thing.

The words spoken, you kneel and you wait, wait, wait. The air shimmers above the brazier as the fire burns through the charcoal, dimming slightly as the fuel is consumed. The incense burns low, the sticks nearly gone to smoke. The smoke burns dull yellow, sweet and thick and nauseating.

“Please,” you whisper, looking into the fire, your hands clenched on your knees. “ _Please_.”

Silence.

You swallow, and say again, “ _Please_. I can’t...I cannot do this alone any longer. I need help. I need a companion. I need a...a _friend_.”

Silence.

Your shoulders slump. The last of the incense burns away, and the flames flicker low, low, low.

It is never a guarantee that one of the Fey will choose you to be their familiar. There is never a certainty that this spell will work the first time you cast it. The right creature must be in the right place at the right time—must _choose_ you, to be your companion and your servant. There is nothing that states that such a bond will be formed with the first casting.

You do not think that you can spare the money to perform this spell again, however. You had one shot, one chance, one opportunity—and you lost it.

There is a slight tearing sound. You look up, eyes wet—and see the air shimmer a few inches above the ground between you and the brazier. Then the shimmer rips open, revealing darkness beyond—and from it steps an orange, tabby cat.

 _“You summoned?”_ the Fey asks. Its voice is rich and deep, resonant, but sharp, like lightning, like embers, like fire.

“Yes,” you say.

The cat smiles. It is a strange and eerie sight, seeing the lips pull back from the teeth in an expression that a cat should never make. _“Very well then,”_ it says. _“Let us make a contract. What would you have me do?”_

“I would have you be my companion,” you say. “I would have you curl up by my side at night, and walk beside me through the winter and spring and summer and fall. I would have you settle in my arms when the world becomes too much. I would have you be my eyes where I cannot go. I would have you protect me as best you can.”

 _“And what will you give me in return?”_ the Fey asks.

“I will feed you when I can, and comfort you, and give you love. I can promise you no more than that.”

The cat sits, still smiling, and cocks its head. It blinks once, long and slow, and then lifts a paw to daintily lick its pad and nibble at one claw.

 _“Your contract is acceptable,”_ it says after a long moment. _“What would you call me?”_

“Frumpkin,” you say almost instantly. You have always wanted a cat named Frumpkin.

The Fey laughs. _“Very well,”_ he says. _“Then I am Frumpkin.”_ He rises, smile fading into a much more common look for a cat, and pads forward. You watch him approach, unsure of what he means to do. Frumpkin’s muscles bunch, and he leaps forward—into your arms. He settles against your chest, beginning to purr. _“Be at peace,”_ he says, lifting his chin to rub against your face, marking you with his scent. _“I am here now. I am here.”_

You settle back onto the ground, Frumpkin on your chest, still purring. You drift off to sleep, your hands tangled in your cat’s fur, feeling the vibrations in your chest.

You sleep better than you have in months.


End file.
